The place I need to be
by electric violinist
Summary: Inexcusably fluffy mushy sexy mushy Stendan fluff.


**AN: Blame Marble Eyes**

There is only one place I need to be.

I take a taxi the moment I'm out of those doors. The driver keeps looking at me suspiciously in the rear view mirror, suspicion painting his face until it's as ugly as sin. No doubt I look like a monster or a criminal. It doesn't matter that he thinks that. It doesn't even matter if he's right. Nothing matters. I have somewhere I need to be. Everything else is a pebble on the road. I don't even notice it. I'm too tense, too nervous, too worked up. My hands can't keep still. Not that I have ever tried to keep them still.

It's so familiar, this place I'm driven to. I have memories around every corner. The best of my life happened here. Some of the worst too. Not the worst obviously, but up there. The times I hurt him, the times I put him in danger, the times I did awful things to protect him, to protect myself.

Somehow it's all still irrelevant. I'm terrified of what I'm about to find. Anything could have happened. I have kept in enough contact with Cheryl to be sure he's not dead, but beyond that it was easier not to know. If he was in trouble and I couldn't help him, then that would have been worse torture than anything the guards and inmates combined could have tried to throw at me. That was why the countless visiting requests were denied, too. To see him hurting and not be able to mend him would have killed me.

There are people around the village. Their lives are inane and stupid; irrelevant and petty. These people will never know love as he and I do. They have no understanding of it. They potter through their lives and shag and cry and laugh and have no concept of real love. Nor real pain. I hate other people. I even hate him sometimes. If I'd never met him, I would have welcomed the mind numbing boredom of prison life, making no decisions, fucking who I wanted. But as it was, I built up a ball of anxious angry energy that I wanted to throw at anyone who crossed me, and yet couldn't release it. The years had thrown hope at me. Good behaviour, two words that had rattled in my head, taunting me, with images of him playing a 'good boy' for me, then teasing me with his wicked grin as he showed me how bad he could be. Good behaviour was the last thing I wanted to show in that place. It was the only way to get back to him.

Good behaviour. I wonder if he would have managed anything of the sort.

The scene as I look out of the window of the taxi suggests anything but.

A small crowd have gathered around his business, almost exclusively looking angry or annoyed or entertained. Some girl I vaguely remember from around the place is fighting with a man twice her size, shouting, throwing stuff. Half the village are there to watch the entertainment or join in the fight, and there he is, supporting her. I know instantly that he isn't a Johnny-come-lately. He's been part of this battle from its beginning. He stands up for people, always has. I should know – he stood up for me when I didn't deserve even a pitying look.

"That's fifteen quid, mate," the taxi driver says, looking at me suspiciously still. Does he think I'm about to make a run for it?

I shove the paranoid bastard a twenty and say "Knock yourself out," but I don't dare open the door yet. He's right there. It's a cold and miserable February day, the clouds in the sky are grey and dull, the sun can't even be bothered to show. It doesn't welcome me back. Why would it? But he always looks like he's bathed in sunshine. His hair, his skin, his eyes; they all glow. Five years and he's still the most beautiful creature on God's Earth. He's my saviour. He's my kryptonite. And if Douglas has come sniffing around him again I'll be hard pressed not to send myself back inside.

There's no sign of Yankee Doodle right now. Just an irate Steven, beautiful Steven, and a bunch of other unimportant idiots. I think I might be smiling. The cabbie is telling me to go. I don't know if I can move.

I see the moment Steven senses me. His hands had been raised in gesture, one pointing, the other threatening to launch some bread at the man fighting with his friend, when suddenly everything about him stills. I see his muscles freeze. I think if he were an animal, his ears would have pricked up. As it is, he is suddenly immobilised. Chaos continues around him. Pointless, useless chaos. As pointless as my extreme fear. What if he's moved on? What if he's forgotten me? What if he resents me? What if he rejects me?

He turns slowly, an island of steady calm amongst what is quickly turning into a scrap as a bunch of young men and a middle aged blond woman spring to the girl's defence. How can they fail to notice the change in him? How can they not have their eyes glued to him? He's staring at the taxi. Right at me.

He drops his hands, the bread tumbles forgotten to the floor. He knows it's me. Does he? Can he? His steps towards me, and another step and another, then a proper walk, then a trot, then a run. I think about telling the cabbie to go, escape. What if it's only hate he has for me now?

It's not. I can see his face. That's not hate.

I dare to open the door of the taxi. I dare put my feet out. He's almost upon me before I've even stood. The door is in his way as he throws himself into my arms. He bangs his hip hard enough to bruise but he doesn't even flinch. I would worry, but he's in my arms, and while he's in my arms nothing in the world can be wrong.

I don't even care if people are looking. Once upon a time this would be terrifying enough to set me off, fight or flight, usually fight, even when no one was fighting back. Now I can't give a shit who is watching. How had I wasted so much time worrying about stuff like that, risking this man's love?

His arms are around my waist, his face buried in my chest. I stare down at his head, my own arms locked around him in a grip I couldn't release if my life depended on it.

"Hi," I say, voice weak and pathetic.

His head snaps up. "Hi?!" he repeats, so angry you'd think I'd suggested killing baby rabbits. He shoves me away from him, violently. "You bastard!" he cries, as I hit the taxi, bruising my back and probably annoying the taxi driver. Then he throws himself at me, this time his mouth on mine. I thought he'd taken charge the first time I told him I loved him. Right now he owns me. He's my sun, my moon, my stars, my life, my death. I can do nothing but thank God he wants to control me, even if it is only for seconds until he remembers that he hates me.

His hands grip my hair with a violence that reminds me that he put me in hospital. He's not an angel, I tell myself. I somehow can't believe it. My own hands grip anything they can reach. His waist, his back. I don't dare even try for his arse. The worst thing that could happen would be that he remembers what I am, where he is, what he's doing. That he pulls away, tells me to go.

He pulls away, lips looking bruised with the ferocity of the kiss. "I fucking hate you!" he growls, his hands in my hair confirming his words.

"I love you," I reply.

He lets out a groan so animalistic I wonder if he's about to tear me apart. Instead he joins our lips again. I have no choice but to pull us both back into the taxi. There's nowhere nearer that won't get us arrested for gross indecency. The taxi may get us arrested for gross indecency. Steven has presence of mind though. He mumbles his address to the driver, and though we're both sprawled on the back seat, the driver leans out his window to push the door shut and drives there. The journey is a blur of Steven; eyes, lips, hands, tongue, hair, but thankfully short, and it feels like no time before the driver is shouting at us to get out of his cab.

We somehow make it to his flat, into his kitchen, and I wonder if his new found dominance extends this far. Right now I'd be happy to just let him do as he pleases to me, but I know enough of what pleases him, and push him onto one of the kitchen units, pulling his joggers down and underpants with them.

I have a moment of indecision. I haven't seen him in five years. That's too many days and nights. Shouldn't I relish this? Take the time to feel every feeling, enjoy every moment? Can I? He answers without me asking.

"Sex now, other shit later."

He has a way with words does my Steven.

I groan. Sex now. Sex with Steven. Sex isn't a strong enough word for entering Steven. Fucking is too ugly, too coarse, sex so mundane, so ordinary. Sex with Steven has always been like nothing else on Earth. I hope I'm not building it up too far. I dreamt about it in prison, somehow never believing it in the morning. But Steven's all legs and arms and eyes and lips and I'm ready to burst already.

He almost rips my clothes off, keeping us close, keeping us touching somewhere for every moment. His hands grip my shoulders. I'm proud of them. Five years and I've kept them perfect, just as he'll remember them. Strong, muscular. I can see his appreciation, feel it in his desperate fingers as his legs wind around my waist.

I assume he knows whether we're likely to be interrupted. Or maybe he doesn't care. He's perched on a kitchen cabinet, his arse almost dangling off the side, clinging to me like I'm the only thing stopping him falling to his death.

He's kicked off one leg, doesn't care about the other, but I want to get his Tee-shirt off. I tug it, and he doesn't stop me. I throw it away, join our lips again.

"Bedroom!" he hisses into the kiss, but he doesn't unwind his legs, so to follow his instruction I lift him, taking the excuse to grip him by his arse. He's wrapping around me like a snake, and I'm running as much as I can with a man in my arms.

We both drop on to the bed, and I reach into his bedside drawer, hoping to find my old supply where I used to keep them. There they are. Whoever he's been with since me isn't the same size. I wonder if five year old condoms are effective, but I don't care for long. They'll do. I'm too desperate.

It's an effort not to hurt him. I have to hold back, prepare him, and while I do we're both like coiled springs. He's begging before I'm done, and I can't even finish. Maybe he needs it to hurt, needs to feel it in every way he can. I line up. I enter him.

We both groan as I fill him. I don't move. I have to relish this moment. I'm here, I'm on top, around, surrounded by and inside Steven. He's real, he's flesh. I can feel him, I can see him, I can smell him. He's staring into my eyes, filled with lust, confusion, adoration. He whispers, "You're a proper bastard, you." Then he pulls my head back down and kisses me again.

I've never felt so complete.

He's gasping, writhing himself before he lets me move. I've been ready to burst for so long now, I don't know how long I can possibly last. He looks thankfully ready, too, and as I start to move my hips, let him feel the effect he has on me, he makes keening sounds, like he did in the old days. I moan his name, and attack that bundle of nerves mercilessly. As merciless as he is with his eyes and legs and mouthy-ness. He keening turns to groans, turn to cries, turn to shouts. My name on his lips. My name has never sounded better.

I don't want it to end. I fight it off, that moment. It's pure ecstasy, but it'll mean the end of this moment. But I can't hold it. He's there, and he's taking me with him, and I can't hold myself up. My forehead is against his, and I collapse on to him. He holds me and I hold him. He's my God.

How did I survive five years without this? How can he still be this beautiful? Surely I'd made him up. His lips are delicious. His eyelashes would make supermodels jealous.

He smacks me and shoves me off of him.

"I hate you," he mumbles, jumping off the bed and looking around for his underwear. I didn't notice them fall, but they're probably in the kitchen.

"I love you," I repeat, honestly.

"You bastard," he mumbles, going for a drawer to look for new ones.

"I love you," I repeat. It's all I can say.

"How are you out?" he snaps, angrily. How can he be angry that I'm out?

"Good behaviour," I say.

"Five fucking years!" he shouts. "Have you any idea what it was like?"

I don't look at him. I don't know anything about what it was like for him.

"I killed my Mum! And then I nearly slept with mi Dad. Then I got framed for murder, then Doug blew up! Then…"

"Steven," I plead. I don't want to hear it. I can't bear to know how I failed him.

"You left me!" he shouts. "You tore my heart out and you left me!"

It hurts. "I was saving Cheryl…"

"I don't care!" he shouts at me. "You chose her over me!"

"I didn't…" I protest.

"You left me to keep her out of prison!" He's nearly screaming at me now. "You were my life Brendan!"

"I shouldn't have been," I say, so quietly I can barely hear myself.

He looks at me aghast, "What?!"

"You forgave me!" I hiss. I see it now, his face a bloody mess, a mess my fists made. My unworthy hands that he still lets touch him.

He blinks, but doesn't shout again.

"I hurt you, and you forgave me. You think I couldn't have stopped doing that? You should have beaten me up, you should have locked me away, but you just… forgave me."

"Of course I forgave you!" he breathed, "I love you."

"And when I hurt you again? And again? Hating myself for making my sister a murderer?"

"You wouldn't have!"

"I would!" I growl. "It's what I did, it's what I do!"

"No!" Steven cries. He still has faith in me. Why doesn't he hate me?

"I should go," I mumble. I've only just realised it. I'd got so fixated on getting back to him, I've barely thought about why I had to go. I can't believe how selfish I've been, showing up here in his life when he was functioning without me.

I stumble out of bed towards the kitchen, intent on finding my clothes. I can get back in prison, they just need to find Mick's body, and the hammer that killed Danny. I need to get out of there, out of his life.

"You what?" I hear him shout, but I ignore him. I need to get away from.

"You can't leave!" he cries, but I can, and I will. He's got friends. Didn't he mention a Dad? I want to ask about that, but I have to go. I'll ask Cheryl.

I find my trousers. There's underwear here somewhere, but it's not essential. Trousers, top, coat. I check my wallet's in the pocket.

"If you leave me again I'll kill you!" he shouts.

I smile. He's brave and crazy. But I don't believe him. I'm getting dressed. I'm ready to go.

"I'll die!" he says.

I freeze. I know I shouldn't listen. I should walk and find someone to bully into looking after him for me. I definitely shouldn't look at him. It'll break me if I do.

"Please!" he says, "please, Bren. I need you. I can't live without you."

"You can," I growl, feeling the hot wet tears in my own eyes spill onto my cheek.

"I can't!" he repeats. "I don't work without you! My life is useless without you in it."

I can hear the tears in his words. They make his voice wobbly. I hate myself for what I've done to him.

"You're the most wonderful person I've ever met, Steven," I tell him, "you can do whatever you want."

"Not without you!" he insists. "You've got to make it up to me, right? You left me to look after your sister, you… beat me up, you hurt me so much, and now you've got to fix me!"

I'm stuck to the spot. I couldn't leave now if the hounds of hell were after me. I've made him beg me to stay when I should be kissing the ground he walks upon.

I turn back to him, fall to my knees in front of him. "Don't let me hurt you!" I beg. "Please!"

He's properly crying now, just like me. I'm realise I'm clinging to him like a child.

"I love you so much," I tell him. "I'd do anything for you, you know that?"

"I know," he says.

"I'll never stop!" I sob, "Never. Even when we're both dead and gone, I'll still love you."

"I love you, too," he says, and he's sliding down in my arms so our faces are level. "You're my life, Brendan Brady. You never leave me again!"

I cling to him. I wish I could make that promise. I'm giving myself another chance to not be a monster. He believes in me, but he's been wrong about me before. But maybe I can. I'm different now. I'm alive and I know what it's like to be without him.

There is only one place I need to be. Wherever he wants me.


End file.
